


Cadence to Arms

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Hallucinations, Other, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-09
Updated: 2010-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 14:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Cadence to Arms

**Author's Note:**

> For once, this is NOT FOR THE KINK MEME! ::faints::

It is dark and he cannot breathe; the air is dense with smog, something white and bitter on his tongue, and there are flakes of ash falling like snow. He cannot breathe and his heart is racing, he cannot breathe and the world is lost in whiteout, he cannot breathe and he is unarmed, he cannot breathe, he cannot breathe, and _he is not alone._

He forces himself to inhale, chokes on the hot smoke, inhales some more. He has to get his bearings. White phosphorus—he recognizes the smell now, someone's been into the smoke grenades. The spots in his eyes must be from the flash. The air is very nearly opaque, blinding him and granting him cover, scattering too-bright lights into amorphous masses that press in around him. He gropes for his radio, finds something close enough, but there's nothing but dead air when he hisses "This is Watson, come in. This is Captain Watson, if anyone can hear me, come in."

Alone, then. Where the hell has his rifle got off to?

He's too vulnerable here; he needs to get into the open, beyond the smokescreen. He gropes along the floor, towards the lights in the fog—not the shifting fire but the steady electrics, red and white and green, what are left of them. It looks like the bloody ceiling's come down around around him: is still coming down, as something crashes in the distance. He crawls, grateful for his gloves as he feels metal twist and glass crunch under his hands. There's no more gunfire, no more sounds of movement, at least not through the ringing in his ears. There ought to be a search on, but he doesn't know who's looking, if being found means a lift back to base or a prepared statement read out over Al-Jazeera or worse, if it meant—if that flicker of shadow is—could be—

He should try the radio again. He needs to get out. Only first he needs his rifle, because if that's who he bloody thinks it is, he's not going quietly this time.

He plunges his hands into the smoke and comes up with a pistol. Also, another hand.

John has enough sense to stifle a yelp, to seize the pistol and bring it up, but there's still no motion, so he creeps forward. Sherlock's face swims out of the smoke at him—a red gash across his face, too damn still, and John's already got his radio back out as he checks for a pulse. "This is Watson to anyone who can hear me, requesting an immediate medical evacuation, I have injured."

Sherlock's breathing is shallow and labored, his pulse is thready—shock or something worse. At first John can't see any injuries aside from the head lac, but as he palpates the chest and abdomen he finds the pinpick burns in his clothes and skin, deep and black: he must've been hit by flecks of burning phosphorus when the grenade went off. He reaches for his kit before he remembers it's all gone, his vest and his gear; he vaguely remembers Sherlock pulling it off, can't remember why. He doesn't have so much as a plaster on him now, can do nothing but catalog Sherlock's injuries and plead for an evacuation he strongly suspects he's not going to get.

If they get out of here alive, he's going to start making Sherlock wear body armor when they go out. A stab vest, at least. Possibly bubble wrap.

Something moves through the smoke, and John can't tell if it's more debris or something living, someone out to find them. He listens, but his radio is silent, which suggests they're looking at the Al-Jazeera option at the very least, at worst—well. Getting into the open is no longer an option, not with Sherlock unconscious and one weapon between them. Safer to hide in here, shrouded in smoke, where they can make the bastards work—assuming the blasted roof doesn't come down on their heads.

The changing stalls. He thinks he remembers now. They can hide in one of the stalls and...well, he'd work that bit out when he got there. Once _they_ got there, because Sherlock is far too heavy for John to just carry, it's too dangerous to drag him—he tries to climb to his feet but vertigo brings him crashing right back down, rattling his off leg. Possibly he has his own head injury to contend with, and doesn't that just make it a picnic? "Sherlock," he hisses, shaking the shoulder that has the fewest wet little burns. "Sherlock, he's still in here. We need to move."

For a moment Sherlock's eyes open, all pupil and no iris, and he opens his mouth without words or breath. He tries to squirm away from John's grip.

"Damn it, Sherlock, listen to me, we need to get under cover," John hisses.

Upon close analysis, what comes out of Sherlock's mouth is likely "Go 'way, Mycroft."

Great. John sighs. "Let me rephrase this. Get up and come with me. That's an _order."_

Instead Sherlock starts to retch. John helps him roll over so he doesn't choke, fights to keep his own gorge down. Severe concussion, then, one for each of them, plus the burns that were nothing to laugh at, head lac, no back-up...they can't even get away from the falling debris, the acrid smell of burning synthetics that's mixed with the garlicky stench of the phosporus. It occurs to John that they could very well die here. It occurs to him they already should have done.

Something moves in the haze, something too large and slow for debris and he raises the pistol before he can think. Someone calls out, and it's hard to make out the words over the ringing in his ears, hard to tell if he recognizes the voice or only thinks he recognizes—but if they were friendly they'd have answered his radio call. He fires into the smoke, and the fact that he hears a shouted curse instead of the wet concussion of a hit, well, he does have a concussion. He waits for another target but there isn't one, just shadows in the haze, him and Sherlock. For now.

It's Sherlock, who's curled up nearly foetal, with both hands clamped over his ears. "Hate you forever," he declares thickly for some reason.

"That's nice," John hisses, dragging one of Sherlock's arms over his own shoulder. "Now _move."_

They would look ridiculous if anyone could seem them. They _are_ ridiculous, and now John can hear people all around, the rush of water, shouting back and forth. His head swims and there is nothing in the fog to orient himself by, just pulsing lights and Sherlock trembling against his side, but somehow or another they hold each other up. John fires into the smoke a few more times, hears the whistle of a shot coming far too close to them--

And then there's a striped curtain where he wasn't expecting one. The stalls, still standing, the closest thing to safe there is for now. He lets Sherlock collapse on the ground again and slides to the floor himself, directly into a puddle of chlorinated water, keeping a fold of the curtain out of the way so he can see if anyone's coming too close.

"I'm not talking to you anymore," Sherlock declares, apropos of nothing, as he tries to crawl away and discovers there is not enough room.

"Bully for you," John says, and gets a firm grip on the gun. His hands are shaking a little and he scowls at them. They aren't supposed to do that—not when he's got a battle to fight.

They must be close to a gap in the ceiling, because the smoke is starting to lift away—slowly, but surely, so even now the outlines are a bit sharper, the air a little less bitter. Blindingly fierce lights are coming in at odd angles, shadowless, making the whole space seem like a film set or a cartoon strip, unreal. He hears voices, but can't make out the words, can't tell if it's _All clear_ and _no sign of the shooter_ or _Gottle o' geer_ and _I was hoping you'd call_ He fires again, twice, not that he expects to hit the smudged shadows in the distance—it would help if the world weren't spinning so, but he can't fight the concussion. If anyone comes closer than the edge of the pool, he'd give himself even odds for actually hitting them, and he's only got...how many rounds has he got left? The numbers are swimming away from him, just like the walls and the floor.

Sherlock hasn't moved in a long time; has rolled himself into the recovery position and drifted off with a scowl still etched on his pale face. The smoke is going to be too thin to cover them soon, and the pistol is going to be nothing but a cunning prop . John takes a deep breath and goes for his radio one more time. "This is Watson, come in," he says as quietly as he can. "This is Watson requesting immediate assistance. I've got injured in need of medical evacuation. If anyone can here me, this is Captain John Watson, please come in."

And finally, finally, someone replies.

 _"Roger that, erm, Captain."_ It's a gravelly male voice and he doesn't recognize it at all, doesn't care, because it's English and not high and lilting and insane. _"What's your location?"_

"The floor," he says stupidly, because nothing else seems steady enough to reckon by. "Pool level. South, erm, southeast entrance—" no, they'd come in that way the first time, not the second, the second time there'd been a bag on his head but maybe that's where he still is, maybe that's how Sherlock came in, Sherlock came on his own power but John came here with...

 _"Watson? You still there?"_

"He's still here," he blurts, because the evacuation team should know, needs to be warned. "With the snipers. I don't know where he's hiding. I can hear--"

He can hear footsteps, too close and too loud, and without thinking he drops the radio and fires; there's a yell but nothing else, no sign he's hit anything, and he keeps pumping the trigger even though he can hear the hammer clicking uselessly. John presses his head against the side of the stall and wills himself not to vomit, wills the room to stop rolling in time with his stomach, wills his hands to stop shaking long enough to let him save their stupid fucking lives.

When he thinks to look for his radio again, it's giving off a dial tone.

He checks on Sherlock again, expecting diaphoresis and clammy hands; if anything, though, Sherlock's too hot, a dry flush coloring his cheeks. At least he hasn't vomited again, but he's not moving, doesn't even respond to John's manhandling, and that's bad, so bad. But help is on the way, could be on the way, should be—if they can get in, if there aren't too many snipers or insurgents, if there's not another bomb—if they heard John and understood and arrive before it's too late—

"Watson? Watson..."

He hears it. He doesn't hear it. He cannot believe he's hearing it. John holds himself very still and listens to the voices calling over the smoke, but no gunshots, no real urgency.

"Watson, it's all right, you can come out now!"

Oh, god, he's been a fool.

He finds the gun, and peeks through the flap of the stall. The smoke has thinned enough for the shadows to return, and there's a spotlight coming down through the hold in the roof, nearly on top of them, lancing painfully into his eyes. Someone is standing very close, one foot up on top of a fallen air duct, playing his torch along the walls. He'd wearing some kind of gas mask and for a moment John thinks hysterically of that episode of Dr. Who, as if these shadows need any more monsters than they've got.

"Come on, Watson! It's okay! All clear!"

He glances back at Sherlock, defenseless, trembling slightly; then he picks up the empty gun. It takes a few tries to get to his feet, but eventually he can step away from the wall, can stand up straight and look more capable than he actually is. He can't move silently, not when he's lucky to be moving at all, but a couple long strides when the other man's not looking and it won't be obvious where he just came from, where Sherlock is hidden. Sherlock, at least, will be safe a bit longer.

The man on the pipe spins at the noise and trains the torch on him, almost blinding him again. The Army taught John eight ways to spot a concealed weapon, and Sherlock a half-dozen more; this bloke has something tucked into his belt, but he doesn't draw when he sees John behind him, just goes very still. "It's all right, Doctor Watson," he says, which, hah, another strike against him. "I'm one of the good guys, yeah?"

London accent, but that doesn't mean anything—even Sherlock had been tricked once—it's not adding up, all wrong, try again. John shuffles over the debris on the ground, trying to watch through the glare. His heart is roaring in his ears and the smoke is playing tricks on his eyes, but he can focus all his attention on this man, this man in front of him, this target, nothing else. "What unit are you with?" he calls.

That moment of hesitation, that gives away the whole game. "The fifth," which doesn't even make _sense._ "You going to put that thing away so we can get out of here?"

John lets his arms drop, lets them hang loose, lets the man come to him. He can't see anyone else in the pool now, and wonders if they've gone, or if they're hiding outside, maintaining a perimeter in case anyone escapes. He wonders if there's enough bullets in the world for that fight, if it comes to that. They can't just sneak out, not if Sherlock's unconscious, but if John could get one of those sniper rifles maybe he can hold out for just a while--

The man comes to John with his torch flicking about this way and that, dragging a tentacle of piercing white light over everything in sight. "Is Holmes with you?" he asks, too casually, and it makes John hate him a little, hating him for lying and pretending and being so bloody easy to read, if John can do this with a concussion then Sherlock could do it in his sleep, is probably doing it right now and faster than John is, would be telling him so if he could wake up. Of course, if he were awake, they wouldn't be in this trouble.

"He's hurt," John says, watching the man in the mask close the distance, come close and closer. He adjusts his grip.

"There's an ambulance outside," the man says, and he's not looking at John, not looking in the right direction. "I'll help you carry--"

John slams his pistol into the man's temple—the mask gives his jaw too much protection, but higher up it's just thin vinyl. The torch goes spinning and flashing away. The man is staggered for a moment, just a moment when John can seize his jacket and pull him in, just long enough to grab the gun from his belt. It's heavy in his hand, unfamiliar but fully-loaded. He shoves the man back and away, almost falls himself, but he keeps his feet and finds his aim.

The man goes down hard on his back and by the time he's put himself right, he's looking at John from down the barrel of his own weapon. "Who are you?" John demands furiously.

"John, you need to calm down," the man says. _John,_ now. Not fearful, either, just a tight thread of alarm like a violin's screech. Like Sherlock on a boring day.

"I'm asking the questions," John snaps. "Who are you? Are you one of his?"

The fallen torch glares off the visor of the gas mask; this isn't even a man in front of him, is it? It's some kind of robot, maybe, or an alien, wearing the mask because it hasn't got a face. "One of whose?"

"Don't play stupid," John snarls. "You know who."

"I really don't--"

 _"Liar!"_ His own voice pulses painfully in his head and he has to reset his stance. "Moriarty! Where is he?"

The name gets a reaction, that's something, that's a tell. Or maybe not. "Jesus Christ, John, he was—wait." The thing on the floor, with the glossing white light for eyes, goes rigid all over. "John. Do you know who I am?"

"You're with _someone,"_ John spits, possibilities spinning out in front of him faster than he can keep track of. "Who is it? Taliban? Al-Qaeda? Black Lotus?"

"John," the thing-man says, moving slowly, "I'm gonna take this mask off, okay?"

"Answer me first."

"I'm just going to take it off--"

 _"Answer the fucking question!"_

John's hands are shaking again; he can't stop them anymore. The end of the gun describes little arcs and circles in the air, just inches, millimeters really, but that's the difference between a kill shot and a clean miss even at this range and they've both got to know it. "It's Greg Lestrade, John," the gas mask says lowly, urgently. "You _know_ me, dammit."

Maybe he does. Maybe he recognizes the gravelly voice from the radio. Maybe the smoke is getting in his eyes, crawling away from his peripheral vision, distracting him from his target. He jerks the weapon, a _go on_ sort of gesture.

Lestrade unfastens the straps and pulls off the mask; he flinches and coughs on the smoke, even though it's thinned to almost nothing. He is as human as John underneath, familiar and real. "There," he says, letting the mask flop to the ground, dead. "You satisfied?"

"How'd you get here?" John demanded, trying to make it all add up. "Did he bring you here? Where's your vest?"

"You call me, you idiot," Lestrade says harshly. "On your mobile. Yammering about evacuations. You're hallucinating, John."

He shakes his head—ooh, that's a bad idea, that sends the whole pool in motion, the smoke and colored lights flying into orbit and John realizes that this is not a game he's going to win. "He was here," he insists, clinging to that. "Moriarty was here."

"I'm sure he was," Lestrade says generously. "But he's not _now._ Now it's just you and me and those paramedics you've been scaring, and hopefully you've got Sherlock back there somewhere. No Moriarty. Okay?"

Lestrade's voice is calm and certain and John feels like he could lean on it, like a wall or a cane. He could rather use one of those at the moment, with the way the floor is tilting. But something in him still makes him protest, "I heard him, though. Out here. I could hear him."

"Like I said, hallucinating." Lestrade is leaning forward, or maybe John is, or maybe they're both perfectly still and it's the pool turning around them. "There's something in here messing with your head. We need to get you outside. I promise the fresh air will help. Okay?"

John tries to blink the lights out of his eyes, but it feels like they're crawling inside, into his head.

"We're just going to put this thing down..." Lestrade is moving. Is he moving? Is he moving or is John? "...and get the two of you into a hospital..."

Lestrade makes a grab for the weapon, and it's beautiful timing, because another wave of vertigo washes up and pulls John's legs out from under him. He comes down harder on his right side than his left, and he can hear Sherlock's voice in his head saying _psychosomatic_ but it doesn't matter, it hurts, it almost doubles him over. Lestrade gets him by the shoulders, propping him up for a minute. "John. John, c'mon, where is he? Where's Sherlock?"

"Hurt," John says. The light from the roof knifes into him; he shuts his eyes, but it's still there, the spotlight and the tendrils of smoke clawing their way towards him, out of the dark.

"John!" Lestrade's shaking him, and it hurts and it makes the room spin, makes it hard for John to focus on anything at all. "Where _is_ he? Does he need an ambulance?"

"Tachycardia," John says. "Respiration shallow, possible airway injury, second and third degree burns to five percent of his body. Hyperthermic. Called me Mycroft."

"Yeah, great, now where'd you hide him?"

Lestrade is solid and certain, and his hands are cool. John could lean against him. Instead he tries to squirm away. "Safe," he tries to explain, "Got to find somewhere safe—Moriarty's still here—"

"Oh, damn it all to hell—"

That's the last thing John remembered hearing before the floor rears up to meet him, before the lights come rushing in; he manages one last wordless warning to Lestrade, that even the lights are on Moriarty's side, and he's swallowed by the remnants of the smoke, and he's going, gone.

XXX

When he wakes up properly, he's in a hospital, a private room; even the dim light coming through the one tiny window is too for him, and when he tries to sit up he discovers he's in soft restraints. He tugs stupidly on one, but only succeeds in rattling his bed rail. It's too loud by half; he wonders if anyone has ever died of a headache

"This cannot be the worse hangover you've ever had."

John turns his head, away from the window; there are still funny little auras around everything, after-images like comet tails, but otherwise the world looks reassuringly normal. Well, except for Sherlock, who is sitting up in bed—that bit is normal—and wearing sunglasses. Large ones, cheap plastic by the look of them. Not normal, but still pretty much within Sherlock's usual range of madness, and honestly given how much his eyes hurt John's almost a little jealous of the hideous things.

Sherlock's got a bandage on his head and he's also hooked up to an IV—and, also, sunglasses—but he's alive and well and something in John suddenly relaxes when he sees it.

Sherlock gives him a tight smile. "Yes, yes, I'm quite all right and you appear to be back in the land of the minimally rational. Moriarty's little game has ended in a draw."

The name makes something in John's stomach clench up on reflex, but it also wakes memories of—something. He shuts his eyes, trying to chase down the thought, but it squirms and squirrels away from him, and for some reason all he can come up with is the smell of...garlic?

No. Phosphorus. White phosphorus grenade. There are burn dressings up and down his left side, and he knows that underneath there will be tiny, nasty burns caused by flecks of burning phosphorus, burns he can't actually feel because of the IV in his arm, though they're going to scar something terrible.

"It was a decoy," he says aloud, testing the words in his mouth to see if they're real.

"Mmm," Sherlock says, thumbs flying over a phone he's probably not supposed to have. "For a certain definition of the word. Enough actual Semtex to be going on with, and quite a bit of plasticized white phosphorus, which would have been fatal in and of itself if it had ignited while you were wearing it. Top it off with a bit of poison gas—so far the lab's identified traces of atropine, flunitrazepam and phencyclidine, and I'm still trying to work out how the bastard managed to aerosolize it all."

"Flunitrazepam?" John echoes, looking at him sharply. "Moriarty gave us _roofies?"_

Sherlock throws down the phone and slumps dramatically against the pillows. "He gave us enough drugs to ensure that neither of us were in any fit shape to pick our own noses, much less report on him, until well after he'd made his escape. By the time the police realized what sort of crime scene they were dealing with, they'd utterly destroyed any evidence of value."

Disappointment drags John's head back down. "So the bastard got away."

"So it would seem."

Moriarty got away, after all the people he'd killed, after wrapping John in a bomb and stealing his voice. He just walked away...John remembered that, actually, remembered Sherlock freeing him from the vest, but after that things were hazy and smeared. Obviously the vest had gone off, but after that...

"Morning, gentlemen."

John jumps, just a little, but it's Lestrade coming in, bringing the over-bright hallway lights with him. Probably full of questions about Moriarty that they wouldn't be able to answer...the door closes, and John's eyes re-adjust, enough to make out the enormous black and purple bruise on the right side of Lestrade's face.

There's a lovely minute when that bruise signifies absolutely nothing to John, and then--"Oh, god."

"What?" Sherlock leaps up and looks around, actually pulling down the sunglasses a bit.

Lestrade just grins weakly. "Remember that, do you?" he asks, sounding remarkably not pissed off, all things considered.

"Sorry," John says anyway, and he is. Knowing he was apparently high as a weather balloon at the time doesn't help much with the embarrassment.

"What sort of delirium could possibly have lead you to attack Lestrade?" Sherlock demands. "Not that I necessarily disapprove, but I would've liked to film it."

John isn't sure he wants to explain, but Lestrade just says, "Oh, Captain Watson here was just protecting his patient." He gives John a weighty look. "Bloody good thing you had my number in your speed dial, though, or you'd have had a tactical support team to answer to. There were three ARVs on the scene by the time I got there."

"I didn't shoot anyone, did I?" John asks, suddenly terrified of all he can't remember.

"No worries—scared the hell out of a few of them, but I was your only casualty." Lestrade pulls up a visitor's chair and pulls out a notepad. "Now, I know you were both tripping the light fantastic back there, but I do have to ask a few questions..."

He asks his questions, and John has nothing useful for answers; either the concussion or the drugs utterly wiped away his memory of the last few minutes between Moriarty's first departure and the detonation of the bomb, though he's absolutely certain the bastard came back-- _but why would he come back,_ Lestrade asks, and neither he nor Sherlock can answer. They'd recovered all thirteen shell casings from the pistol, he says, but not all thirteen bullets.

"How many shots did John fire?" Sherlock asks.

Lestrade frowns. "He emptied the magazine."

"But how many were in it?" Sherlock asks, slow and over-articulated. "It was fully loaded when I brought it to the pool. If either of us fired on Moriarty before the bomb went off--"

"No GSWs in any London hospitals," Lestrade says. "We checked that right off."

"Something tells me he's not enrolled with the NHS," John says.

Lestrade promises to interview the paramedics and firefighters, but of course that'll only tell them if the gun was fired and not who fired it, who or what was hit. John suspects that they're all being a bit too casual about that gun, considering its origins and dubious legality, but he supposes they'll cross that bridge when they come to it.

Later, after Lestrade has left (but not before he released John from the itchy restraints) Sherlock says, "Defending your patient, Captain Watson?"

John feels his face burn. "He was wearing a gas mask. I thought..."

"I can deduce easily what you thought," Sherlock says. Behind those stupid sunglasses it's hard to tell where he's looking, or if he eyes are even open. "I'm merely uncertain to what extent I should be flattered that you consider me a comrade in arms, versus concerned that you had some kind of flashback to a war zone."

"We used white phosphorus grenades for smokescreens all the time" John pointed out. "Isn't smell supposed to be linked to memory?"

Sherlock makes a vague noise. He's laying back on his pillows, hands folded under his chin like a corpse.

"Besides," John says, "if that wasn't a declaration of war, I don't know what is."

"Yes," Sherlock says after a long moment, though he sounds strangely reluctant. "I suppose so."

And when John drifts into uneasy sleep, it's no longer gunshots and sand he dreams of. It's high, thin laughter in his ear and the stench of phosphorus.


End file.
